


Old Friend

by frumious_bandersnatch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergance, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, because this is just going to be about him, does anyone even like Alastair or is it just me?, reading too much into quotes, season four
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumious_bandersnatch/pseuds/frumious_bandersnatch
Summary: It pays to have friends in low places, or: reading way too much into something Alastair said and making it a fic. Enjoy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Old Friend

_ It pays to have friends in low places, don’t you think? _

To think he’d said that less than a day ago. He would have laughed if he wasn’t in such intense pain, roiling through him, through every atom. It was worse than anything he’d taken- worse than anything he’d given, which was a fine achievement.

He begged. Or at least, as close to begging as something like him could get.

“It’s not us,” He gasped out, struggling against the crushing force coming at him from all sides. “We’re not doing it.”

“I don’t believe you.” And oh, that was music to his ears. That was Lucifer. They really were made for eachother, and the only thing that soured the mood was that Dean wasn’t awake to see the monster his baby brother had become.

And there was a brief reprieve. He let out a barely there wheeze of a chuckle and wet his lips. “Ngh- Lilith is not the one behind this. She would kill a hundred, a thousand…” He crooned, allowing himself to grin. He saw, now. That uptight commander of the garrison...doubt had been sewn in his mind. And it was beautiful that even now more angels could fall.

Sam stopped, faltering just a little. The demon’s words obviously made sense to him, but as soon as he faltered he reconquered what little doubt, what little human hindrance that was emotion he had and gave a wicked smirk that fit his face all too perfectly.

“Oh, go ahead. Send me back, if you can.” He laughed, sneering.

“I'm stronger than that, now. Now I can kill.” His smirk widened and he once again raised his hand.

Alastair choked, before letting out a broken scream as the pain ratcheted back up to where it had been before and redoubled. His eyes glazed over in a pearly white and he collapsed, he felt everything ebbing away as his long life was finally cut short. He relaxed into it, and then-

Dark wings unfurled over him, a black so deep one could swear they could step into it and get lost, lights and every color at once shimmering so far away, swirling and shifting with every second that felt like a lifetime. Unmoving, unseeing, he wept.

  
  


Alastair was sitting behind a booth in a restaurant. He jerked, blinking rapidly.

“Hello, A-“

“Alastair.” He regained his composure quickly, shifting where he sat and clearing his throat. “My name is Alastair. I would prefer you use that one.” There was an understanding nod from the other party, and he continued. “Mm, didn’t we just speak a month ago? And by all accounts I shouldn’t be here…” Alastair finally took the time to look around.

Here, to the untrained eye, was a homey American diner, with tacky yet clean smelling plastic upholstery on the booths and chairs, a chrome colored counter, and the smell of potatoes and bacon frying. But looking deepe, there was no one there but the two of them, and outside the windows was nothing. Not black, not white, just a void that felt so entirely wrong to look at that Alastair couldn’t bear it for more than half a second.

“A week.” Death corrected lightly, leaning back and looking as comfortable as possible in the form He’d chosen. An aging man with a slightly stern voice that looked for the life of Him like skin stretched thin over bones.

“Ah. I was never good with time.” Alastair stared at the top of the table, looking like a child faced with the guilt of being called to the principal’s office. “And why am I here?”

A heavy sigh was drawn. “I seem to have gotten sentimental.” Bony fingers drew tighter around the head of a cane. 

“Mm. The Winchester boys, I assume? They have a habit of doing that…” Alastair drawled, sitting back lightly and tapping his fingers on the pressed wood of the table. He thought back and realized he had done much the same thing. Half the times he’d been to Earth in the past year had been of his own volition! Don’t get him wrong, he still hated the place, but seeing Dean and what he’d become and what he was still denying himself was too perfect. He’d never done that for anyone else. He paused when he saw Death’s expression and flinched, clearing his throat. “I don’t mean to presume, of course-“

“You assume correctly, Alastair.” Death interjected lightly. “You simply need to remember your place. You are here because I allow it. I can allow you to pass on at any point. And there is no bringing you back from the Empty.”

“I know. But me?” Alastair chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “Why?”

“You were the first I saw of your kind. The first ape with a soul, the first to pull yourself out of the mud.”

“And? If you couldn’t tell, mm…” Alastair looked down at his chest, as if he could see the blackened, scarred mess of a soul inside. “I’m not that. Anymore.”

“No.” Death actually did see it. And...Well, He couldn’t say it was beautiful. Not in the sense it had once been. But the blackness, the rough edges, it all moved in harmony. Like the art Alastair created on his own canvases, on the souls he was brought. They didn’t end up some piecemeal hack work like other demons. They had a sense, a flow, a beauty in their destruction. “You most certainly aren’t. But...that’s not a reason not to keep you around. I don’t believe this is your time.” He paused. “And I will give you a choice,”

“Oh? Of what, life or death?” Alastair scoffed. “I take it there’s rules,”

“Yes. Stay away from the vessels until after the apocalypse.”

“After? There is no after. It’s the end times for a reason.” Alastair shook his head.

“Not on this Earth, I don’t think.” Death shook His head. “No, not this time around. These ones are different.”

“Now, does that mean I simply stay in Hell? Back to my station?”

“The surface, Alastair. You can’t just go back to Hell after being killed, not right now.”

“Then I’d rather-“

“Don’t be so rash. Why is it you hate Earth? Is it that you prefer Hell that much more, or is it because of the memory you have of how it was?” Death challenged, watching as Alastair slumped where he sat.

“I...accept, then.” 

“Good. Now, let’s get you settled in, old friend.”


End file.
